“Any idea how long that’ll take?”

“You in a hurry?”

“We do have another call, but no problem, Lieutenant.”

“Your drivers are paid by the hour.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Nothing comes to mind, Ms…” Squinting to make out her I.D. badge. “Rieffen.”

“Lara. You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I’m open to suggestions, Lara.”

“Well… I’m just feeling my way around, don’t want to miss anything.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Okay, then.” To me: “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

Milo said, “This is Dr. Delaware. He’s a consulting psychologist.”

“Psychologist,” she said. “For a profile?”

Milo knows I rate profiling just below reading tea leaves and political polling. “Something like that.” Glancing at the rickety spiral framework that led down to the second floor, he said, “We’re okay here, Lara, go take your next call.”

C.I. Rieffen gathered up her stuff and hurried down.

When her footsteps had stopped echoing, he pulled a panatela from a pocket of his forlorn, lint-colored windbreaker, jammed it in his mouth but didn’t light up. As his jaw bunched, the cigar tilted upward. He stared at the bodies some more. Got on the phone and searched for Desmond Backer’s registered vehicle.

Five-year-old BMW 320i. He put a BOLO on it, with instructions to transport but not search until processed forensically.

Pocketing his cell, he said, “Caught in the act but maybe staged to reconstruct.” Half smile. “The little death followed by the big one.”

He studied the sky. “No casings says our boy was careful, unless he’s nostalgic and likes revolvers. No bullet holes anywhere but the one in Mr. Backer’s head, and the diameter says probably small caliber. With her purse gone and no vehicle in sight, I’d say a jacking might indeed be part of it. Except Backer’s wallet is full of cash and that watch is serious money.”

I said, “Maybe this was about her and the purse has nothing to do with robbery.”

“Such as?”

“This early I’m better with questions than answers.”

“Join the club. Now all I need to do is find out who the hell she is. Any insights? Won’t hold you to them.”

“No sign of struggle and a contact wound says the bad guy achieved control early on. That could be the result of good planning. My bet is they were staged-there’s almost a theatrical quality to the position.”

“Something personal.”

“Strangling’s about as up close and personal as it gets,” I said.

“Control with a small-caliber gun? Shoot him, first, she’s too freaked out to resist, just lays there and gets choked out?”

“Maybe there were two killers.”

“Repositioning them,” he said. “That could be a statement-jealous rage. Ex-boyfriend follows them here, watches them do it, goes bananas.”

“If this was a tryst-spot, it’s pretty unromantic. No wine, no weed, no chocolate, not even a blanket.”

“Maybe the bad guy took all that with him. Getting rid of the evidence. Or wanting a trophy. Or both.”

“Leaving them this way could also be a way of demeaning them further. Which could mean jealousy.”

“Or a sadistic psychopath.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but what doesn’t fit that is the lack of overkill, her not being posed with her legs spread. There’s something subtle here. Possibly victim-specific. Taking her purse points to her being the main target. Wanting to hold on to a part of her.”

He circled the turret, took in the view to the west, lit up and blew out a blue stream that ribboned up through the rafters. “Hot date under the stars. Why here, specifically?”

“Backer was an architect, maybe he’d worked the site. Maybe he had a key, brought her up here to impress her.”

“I designed the Taj Mahal, baby, so do me? If so, Backer’s involvement was at least two years ago because that’s when the job went on ice. And he wouldn’t need a key, the chain’s long enough to swing the gate wide. That from the rent-a-cop who discovered the bodies. According to him, he reported it to his bosses but they shined him on. Which is consistent with security being a joke: one guy, seven to ten a.m., nothing on weekends, and the most lethal weapon they let him use is a flashlight.”

“Why’d construction stop?”

“Guard asked about that, too, was told to mind his own business.”

I said, “An abandoned site would suit Backer if he liked to party here. With this woman, or others. Given the discrepancy between his clothing budget and hers, I’d start with lower-paid employees of his firm.”

“Office romance with the receptionist, unfortunately she’s got a possessive significant other. One thing: The guard says he’s never seen evidence of other trysts.”

“We’re talking the nervous-looking, skinny fellow with the limp.”

“Doyle Bryczinski. Applied to the department, got into a serious T.A., messed up his leg.”

“ Milo made a new friend?” I said. “What’s his favorite food?”

“Begrudging me the occasional helpful citizen?”

“God forbid.”

“Bryczinski came across nervous to you?”

“When I drove up, he watched me. When I made eye contact, he pretended he hadn’t been watching. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t point out that you just described Bryczinski as a wannabe cop who sounds extremely frustrated about the lack of control in his life. Guy like that, girlfriend throws him over for someone cuter, smoother, richer? In the exact spot you brought her, yourself?”

“The guy tries to help, all of a sudden he’s a prime suspect?”

“Like the song goes,” I said, “suspect the one you’re with.”

He took a long sour look at the bodies, made his way toward the rickety spiral staircase. “Let’s get to know ol’ Doyle a little better.”

Doyle Bryczinski said, “Oh, man, they look… worse.”

“Worse than when you found them?” said Milo. Bryczinski turned away. “They’re more like… people.”

“And less like…”

“I dunno, it was like… unreal. When I found them, I mean.”

“Helluva way to start your day, Doyle.”

“My day starts at four thirty,” said Bryczinski. “Take care of my mother before her attendant shows up at six, then I got to drive straight out here.” Head shake. “Then I find this.”

“Mom’s sick?”

“She’s all kinds of sick. Used to live with my brother then he moved to Nome. That’s Alaska.”

He licked his lips. Small, fragile-looking man, nervous as a rabbit. Without a gun, he’d have trouble controlling anything.

Before bringing him up here, Milo ran background. Bryczinski had accumulated several unpaid traffic tickets. The disabling traffic accident was a one-car, which usually means DUI, but Bryczinski’s blood alcohol had fallen short of the criterion.

When ask to come up for a second viewing, he said, “Sure.” Then: “How come?”

“We could use your help, Doyle.”

The guard’s limp turned the three-story climb into a plodding ordeal.

Milo let him stand there for a while, getting an eyeful of the bodies. Sweat beaded Bryczinski’s hairline. His back curved in an unhealthy way. Forty but he looked fifty, with wispy sandy hair gone mostly gray and a narrow face sunken in all the wrong places. Five seven, one thirty soaking wet. Small, cheap flashlight hanging from a belt drawn to the last hole. No one was serious about keeping this site secure.

“Anyway,” he said.

“You’re sure you don’t know them.”

Bryczinski’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

“Now that you can see their faces, I mean.”

“I see ’ em but I sure don’t know ’em.” Backing away toward the wall. Just before he made contact, Milo took hold of his arm.

Bryczinski tensed. “Hey.”

“Sorry, Doyle. We need to print everything. I’m sure you know the drill.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Milo said, “This kind of situation, I have to ask all kinds of questions. You’re up here more than anyone. Meaning if anyone comes by, messes the place up, you’d be in the best position to know.”